Visiting a Friend pt. 2 | Brazil
Journal excerpts dated March 16, 2023:
I hadn’t slept on the flight to São Paulo, I wasn’t able to. Sleeping in any moving vehicle is difficult for me. On top of that, I’m much too tall to sit comfortably in an airplane seat while also being too poor to afford an upgrade. For me, long flights are a test of mental fortitude. Checking out the flight attendants and drinking wine gets old after about the two-and-a-half-hour mark, so I often resign to some dissociative state and push the tightness in my legs and lower back deep into the recesses of my mind. If a baby cries, I am likely to snap.
I also didn’t sleep during our designated afternoon napping time at Maiharra’s. I was exhausted and running on fumes, but the excitement had taken hold. I was wide awake and ready for the next thing; the coffee I’d ordered at brunch didn’t help the situation. Although I didn’t sleep, I did take a much-needed shower.
I grabbed a change of clothes and stepped into the upstairs bathroom, stripped down, and stepped into the shower. A few seconds later, I stepped out of the shower, put my clothes back on, and ran downstairs.
“How the fuck do you work this shower?” I asked, slumping my head.
They both belted, then Maiharra ran upstairs, and I followed.
“They don’t look like this in the U.S.,” I told her.
She showed me how to turn on the water and control the heat. Most people in São Paulo don’t have a hot water heater; instead, they use shower heads plugged directly into a 220V power source. A series of coils heat the water as it comes through the head.
I looked up at the frayed wiring. It was haphazardly taped and dangling too close to the water stream. It was sketchy, to say the least.
Your typical Brazilian showerhead wiring.
“Is that safe?” I side-eyed her.
“Of course!” she chimed as she glided out the bathroom door, shutting it behind her.
She yelled in Portuguese-accented English from the other side of the door: “Oh! And if you take a shit, don’t flush the paper! It is bad for the pipes; there is a waste basket!”
“Shit in the waste basket; got it!” I yelled back jokingly.
I glanced at the electrical situation again and did a quick last-minute risk analysis before deciding it was clearly safe enough before stepping in. A hot shower after nearly a full day of traveling is the most amazing feeling. I took advantage of the fact that there was no water heater and stood there for a long time. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t believe I was finally here in Brazil with Kiana. We’d talked about this for over a decade, and I knew she was as excited as I was.
After finishing my meditation and scrubbing my skin pink, I doused myself in cold water to ward off the outside heat. I dressed and went back down to join Kiana and Maiharra. I walked through the living area to the kitchen, grabbed a glass, and filled it from the tap. I took a sip.
“Don’t!” Kiana had been watching me, ”Don’t drink the tap water!”
I opened my mouth, having not yet swallowed, as the now warm and saliva-y mixture waterfalled back into the glass. I knew not to drink from the tap, but the thought didn’t even cross my mind. Habit. I dumped and rinsed the glass. She pointed me to a ceramic water filter traditionally used in Brazil that was sitting on the counter behind me.
Instead of napping, I sprawled out in the middle of the living room floor and stretched my muscles. Sunlight from the open front window warmed my face. Kiana lit another spliff. We passed it back and forth while she and Maiharra caught up in Portuguese, and I tried to listen. I knew only enough of the language to discern a general vibe of the conversation. This was your average gossip session. We lounged and caught up as daylight faded over the next few hours, then got ready for our evening.
A photo from my stay in Maiharra’s home, March 2023.
Maiharra took us to a barzinho in her neighborhood. The air was beginning to cool after the heat of the day as we plopped down into plastic patio chairs at a matching table on the street corner. It was the perfect spot to share a cerveja and a basket of fries. Melt marks from cigarette butts of past patrons marred the table’s surface; we stuffed a few folded napkins under one of the table’s legs to level it.
We were joined by Maiharra’s acquaintance, Bruno, whom she’d met just a week before. We ran into him on the street on our way to the little bar, and he tagged along. Bruno spoke quite a bit of English; we shared our interests and a cigarro as we sat.
It seemed that every passerby and every patron of this establishment knew Maiharra. Person after person would run up off the street with a smile and greet us. I almost wondered if she sent out a mass message about where she would be that evening. It was a carousel of faces; I couldn’t possibly remember them all, but each one was so kind and bright and gave me the warmest welcome to their country. Then, another woman approached the table. She looked older and tired; she said something I couldn’t understand. She was staring at me.
“What? What’s wrong?” I asked, looking around the table.
She pointed at me and raised her voice. Maiharra said something in Portuguese and waved her hand, but the lady started yelling. I realized this woman wasn’t another friend. Maiharra raised her voice to match, but no conversation was happening; she was droning over the lady’s shouts until she went away.
“What was that about?” I asked again.
Kiana told me she just came up and started shouting at me, specifically, to give her money.
“You have white skin and blond hair, and you speak perfect English with an American dialect; she thought you were rich,” she told me.
“So do you! You’re white and blond and speak English.” I pointed out, “She didn’t think you were rich too?”
“I’m a woman; she thought you were the one in control here.” she started laughing.
I had yet to think about how I may be perceived in Brazil. As a tourist, of course, but as a symbol of monumental privilege that might even invoke anger, it wasn’t something I had thought about. I’m not remotely considered rich in the United States, nor am I in Brazil. Still, I am aware of my privileges and how fortunate I am to have what I do have — in both material wealth and opportunities. Wealth disparity is a significant issue in Brazil and a topic that will be returned to many times throughout this blog.
During one of our tangents, Kiana told me that São Paulo has the largest helicopter fleet in the world, with one touching down every 45 seconds. It is a favored transportation of the rich, so much so that they have an Uber service called “Revo” here to order personal flights. São Paulo is a city where kids sleep on the streets, and the rich fly high above them, never touching the ground. But there are beautiful things and people below. Down here, the Paulistanos, who are the worst off, can’t help but perceive wealth and privileges they don’t possess themselves when it is in their face all of the time. Their position in life isn’t their fault, and while I may sometimes be seen as a symbol of this wealth and privilege, I am painfully not in control. So, with the opportunity I have been given, I aim to gain a greater understanding of these issues and talk about them as often as I can as I tell this story.
São Paulo is the only city in the world with a dedicated Air Traffic Control for their fleet.
I had been sitting there thinking about the woman and how she’d perceived me when I witnessed another woman approaching. She was tall with skinny legs, curly hair that fell to her shoulders, and a beard. She had tribal tattoos from her ears to her feet and wore a shiny black dress. She stopped in her heels at the table’s edge and waited for Maiharra, who was entranced in conversation, to notice her. This woman would someday become very important to me, and I will talk about her again later. Still, in this moment, she was a stranger, one who intrigued me from the moment I saw her.
She placed her hand on Maiharra’s shoulder, who turned to see her. Another energetic Brazilian greeting ensued. I began to wonder if this is just how they always do it. After several minutes, Maiharra introduced her to the table as Indra; she took a seat in front of me. Indra and I talked more than anyone else. We talked about travel, fashion, and what we did for work. She was an advocate for the trans and queer communities in Brazil and an entertainer; at the time, she was also making and selling clay jewelry online.
As the night went on, it was as if we were playing musical chairs with special guests. The moment one person left, the next would appear from the streets and gossip for a spell before slipping back into the night. As more came and went, more empty bottles filled the table, and roaches filled the ashtray.
On the uneven street, old cars and motorcycles zoomed by, often precariously close to collision but never quite hitting. No one honked or yelled out their window. They would screech to a halt, one would pass, and they'd keep on moving. I felt perhaps we were sitting much too close to the street, but no one else around us seemed to have this anxiety.
"Did you guys just see that shit?" I asked after a moto boy was almost obliterated mere feet — or meters — from where we were sitting.
"Yeah, dude, it's fucking wild, but somehow they always manage," Kiana replied.
Moto boys are imperative to the way São Paulo operates. You'll see them weaving in and out of traffic, between cars, and sometimes even on the sidewalks. They are primarily young men, all riding on motorcycles carrying all sorts of cargo to patrons around the city. When it rains, you'll see them all stopped under bridges or awnings outside restaurants while waiting for a customer's food. They seem to all know each other. I've often seen them riding side by side, chatting as they speed down the freeway. The phenomenon of the moto boy is incredibly apparent to the American eye upon arrival in Brazil. I've been fascinated with them and their dangerous work since.
I was sitting at that table while chaos danced past with Kiana, Maiharra, Bruno, and Indra, and I looked around at the faces I’d met that day. They were full of smiles, and I was full of appreciation. It was at that late hour on my first day in Brazil; after several beers and a ton of fried potatoes, I told Kiana, “I think I could live here.” : a completely unhinged sentiment.
She was tipsy herself and shouted out to the table, “Wilson’s moving here!” They gave a few hoots of support.
“He’s here just a few hours and already moving!” Maiharra teased me.
And it’s absolutely delulu, but full of beer, and with zero sleep in nearly 48 hours, I thought I could do it. The reality is that, at this point, it was just a passing sentiment. It’s such a clichê to go on vacation, want to move there, and talk of the impact and how it changed you. I was a tourist taking a one-week hiatus from his life, and I was feeling the experience.
Time went on, and Bruno slipped away. I’d wanted to ask him for his information. He was a cute guy with a mustache, but I also didn’t expect I would actually ever be back, so I didn’t ask. I’ve never seen him again since. I did, however, get Indra’s information. We’d spent so long talking, and I wanted to keep up with her. Not long after Bruno, Indra also made her leave, strutting away on her heels to another bar to meet other friends. Maiharra ordered an Uber as we paid our bill. Kiana and I shared one last spliff of the night. I sighed in my chair. It had been so long since I’d really slept. The drug of São Paulo could only fuel this energy for so long.
There had been some summer evening lighting flashing throughout our night, but nothing to be concerned about. Then suddenly, all at once, the sky broke open, thunder clapped, and rain poured from the sky. This, indeed, was a city in the rainforest. At that exact moment, our Uber pulled to the curb. It was serendipitously timed — like a movie. We bolted towards the car, laughing at our divine luck and screaming from the cold of droplets hitting our skin. I felt so alive.
A photo from Maiharra’s front window that night, March 2023.
The rain beat down on Maiharra’s roof hard that night. She’d laid out blankets and pillows for the both of us; Kiana opted for a hammock strung up adjacent to the futon I would be sleeping on. I listened to the rain, and it began to lull me; I could feel the exhaustion sweeping me away.
“Night, love you.” came Kiana’s voice from the hammock.
“Love you too, night.” I rasped out before fading into darkness.
To be continued…
Next post:
I hope that parts one and two of Visiting A Friend, documenting my first weeklong visit to Brazil, were as enjoyable for you to read as they were for me to write. The following blog post details the next day as we hit the road and leave São Paulo behind for the tropical paradise that is Ilhabela. Stay tuned for the next post!
